Jason on Ice
by Nadare
Summary: "Ever think of taking up a sport? I happen to have an opening on my team. No try out needed of course." Or Jason joins a hockey team and makes some friends...for a little while anyway. Written for Goretober 2019. Moderate blood and gore.


_A/N: This came out so much fluffier than I intended. After doing a ton of research about hockey, I realize the mask Jason uses is no longer officially used in modern games, but it's iconic. Cut me some slack. :p _

_Inspired by a tweet by Bryan Lynch wherein Jason joins a hockey team and learns the value of friendship. Props to him for the idea, which I've merely twisted to my own tastes. ^^_

[Written on and off between 9-28-19 to 10-27-19]

Prompts: Mask and Machete.

* * *

"_**Jason on Ice"**_

Alan Brown couldn't believe his luck. The beautiful waitress Christine, call me Krissy, had actually agreed to go on a date with him. Crystal Lake, New Jersey was pretty much nowheresville, Alan expecting it to be a one and done stop that would yield nothing but another defeat for his hockey team.

He nervously checked his breath against his hand for the tenth time, wishing he'd packed more dressy clothing in his suitcase. As footsteps approached him, Alan looked up, a smile on his face. Krissy had cleaned up, exchanging her work uniform for a blouse and skirt. Her blonde hair had been styled attractively.

"Hi," she said, stopping about an inch away from Alan. "Sorry for the wait."

Alan tried to calm down his racing heart. "No, it's fine." He swallowed the lump in his throat. "You look beautiful."

"Thank you," Krissy replied with a shy grin, then held up her car keys. "Shall we go?"

With the help of a few beers on both their parts, Krissy and Alan had decided to dispense with the usual formalities and enjoy each other while they had the chance.

The backseat of the car wasn't ideal in terms of comfort, but it served its purpose well enough.

Alan held himself up on his arms and panted, Krissy's warm smile as she stretched out beneath him heartening. He hadn't expected to last long, but it had been enough to show her a good time.

"Well, I guess it's true what they say about sports players," she breathed out, starting to pull away from him, eventually sitting upright on the car seat.

"What?"

"They know how to score," Krissy giggled.

He handed Krissy the skirt she'd pulled off hurriedly from the floor of the car, then straightened out his own outfit. "I don't know about that. Traveling around most of the year pretty much kills any opportunities for romance."

Fully dressed again, her brow still wet with sweat, Krissy hit him on the arm lightly. "Don't say that. You're a great guy, Alan. Why do you think I said yes to you in the first place?"

"Pity?"

She shook her head. "Of course not. You should be more confident in himself." Krissy sighed. "I have to hit the can, I'll be right back."

"Okay." She opened the car door and slipped out towards the public park restroom as Alan returned to the driver's seat, his legs still a bit unsteady from the activity that had happened minutes ago. Alan's head ached, the alcohol he'd consumed coming back to haunt him in multiple ways.

Maybe Krissy had had the right idea.

Speaking of, she'd been gone for a while. Alan looked at his watch worriedly. Should he go fetch her or let her come back in her own time?

Before he could make the awkward decision, a figure came out of the women's side of the bathroom and Alan breathed a sigh of relief. There she was.

However, the closer Krissy got to the car, the more Alan realized something was terribly wrong. Her feet were hanging off the ground, red staining the lower half of her body. Krissy's head was hanging down, her chin upon her chest, the middle of which had been punctured with something sharp.

Most troubling of all was that she wasn't alone. A dark shadow loomed behind her, dressed in shabby clothes with a cracked and dirty goalie mask on his face.

The sight reminded him of something, a local urban legend about a cursed campground, but Alan was more focused on getting the hell out of there before he was next.

He turned the car key sitting in the ignition, relieved beyond measure when it started promptly. Alan pumped the accelerator, the car careening forward with a sharp jerk.

He jumped as something heavy hit the back windshield, almost shattering it. A quick glance back confirmed it was Krissy's dead body.

Not being that familiar with Crystal Lake, Alan went to the only other place he knew: the ice arena. It wasn't that late at night, around 8 PM, maybe there'd still be some janitorial staff around? At the very least, Alan could lose the demented killer there.

The more distance he put between them, the better Alan felt. He was almost convinced he'd lost the man completely as he hurriedly parked outside the ice arena, then ran to the main entrance. Alan pulled at the door handle, frustration growing inside him as he realized it was locked.

He looked over his shoulder, staring in disbelief at the large masked man who walked determinedly towards him. It was impossible. Alan had driven at least two miles and yet the killer had caught up seemingly on foot. What kind of monster was he?

Shaking himself out of his daze, Alan stepped back and kicked at the glass door, easily breaking it. He was trembling in fear as he stepped through it, avoiding any broken glass that stuck out from the inner frame. Alan went into a full-out run down the circular corridor that lined the central ice rink.

He needed a weapon. He remembered the locker room the team had toured earlier in the morning and ducked into it, going straight for the closest locker. He grabbed a hockey stick and spun around, his heart pounding like mad as the killer's footsteps never faltered as they approached his location, honing in on Alan with no hesitation.

He'd seen what had ended Krissy's life and had no inclination to die under the blade of a machete. The locker room door rattled as it opened, unveiling the killer in all his glory.

The strange man was tall, the mask concealing any emotion he could have been feeling. Despite traveling such a long distance on foot, he wasn't even out of breath. Blood still dripped from the machete he held at his side as he pressed closer to Alan.

"I'm not dying here," Alan vowed, swinging his hockey stick as hard as he could, hitting the man in the side of the head. It was like hitting a solid brick wall, the blow vibrating up his arms, his hands going numb temporarily. Still, Alan struck again and again, only stopping once his hockey stick was cut in half.

It stuck to the machete temporarily, Alan taking advantage of the distraction to slip past the man. He had just made it to the door when rough fingers clutched his hair, yanking him backward. Tears stung his eyes, Alan realizing he probably wasn't going to survive after all.

The sight of his coach, a man named Rod Smith, suddenly walking into the room was little comfort as something punched through Alan's head from above at an angle, rupturing a myriad of internal organs as it exploded out the front of his chest. Shock more than pain seized all of Alan's senses, vaguely recognizing that it was the end of a hockey stick that had pierced him through.

The last thing he saw was Rod wiping at the blood spatter on his face with the back of his arm. Alan knew the man to be an indomitable hard ass, nothing affecting his drive to see himself and the team he ran succeed. If he couldn't take the situation in hand, no one could.

"Get him…Coach," Alan sputtered before oblivion consuming every fiber of his being.

* * *

"You killed my goalie," Rod said numbly, frozen on the spot as Alan fell to the ground, dead as a doornail. "Damn near blew out his insides with one blow. That is…impressive."

He knew who the person standing in front of him was. Supposedly risen from the grave after his mother had been killed, Jason was a mass murderer that preyed on anyone who dared to place themselves in his path, whether intentionally or accidentally.

Despite all the evidence to the contrary, Crystal Lake buried Jason's existence as deep as they could, preferring to think of the man as an urban legend. They'd gone so far as to try to change the name of the town, albeit unsuccessfully.

Jason raised his machete high over Rod's head. "Such strength and initiative. I admire that in a person," continued Rod, feeling himself go pale. "You are clearly a man of many talents, but I feel like a lot of your anger is misplaced.

"You need a better outlet," Rod rambled, only half-hearing what he was saying as he stared up at the obscenely sharp blade hanging over him.

The more he talked, the more of a chance he had to extend his life, however briefly. "Ever think of taking up a sport? I happen to have an opening on my team. No try out needed of course."

Jason paused, putting his head to the side. For the first time, Rod thought there might be an actual mind in the body wielding the weapon that threatened his life.

Rod cleared his throat, hoping he'd hit upon a way to keep breathing indefinitely. "Would you…like that?"

The machete dropped to Jason's side, only his slow breathing filling the silence between them. Rod decided to take it as a yes, slowly holding out his hand in front of Jason. "Just let me exchange that machete for the proper equipment."

A short pause, then Jason deftly placed the weapon in Rod's palm. The handle was warm and sticky with blood, Rod swallowing down his rising gorge. He carefully placed the machete up against the side of a bench before fetching a hockey stick from a nearby locker with his clean hand.

Jason took the stick from him, squaring his shoulders, Rod slow to catch onto the fact he was imitating what a goaltender's body language would look like standing in front of the goal. Just like a little kid.

Despite knowing what he'd done to a member of his team and who knew how many others in the past, Rod could feel a small smile pull at his lips.

Still, reminding Jason about who he was seemed dangerous and Rod resolved to find a way around the problem.

"Welcome to the team, son."

* * *

At the morning practice of the Traverse City Trolls, Coach unveiled a new addition to the team. Beside him stood an imposing 6' "4 figure, already wearing a white and red hockey mask on his face. From his physique alone, he looked like he could have snapped someone in two upon his knee without any trouble.

"Our usual goalie Alan fell ill and can't complete the season," he explained. "This is Robert Willis aka Bob, the replacement. He doesn't talk much, but please make him feel at home, all right?"

Some of them knew who had joined the team, others not so much.

They muttered amongst themselves as Bob came to stand in front of Alan's previous locker, staring at the various pieces of equipment that comprised his new uniform.

His locker mate, Peter Craven, raised an eyebrow as he finished putting on his shoulder pads. "You need some help there, buddy?"

The man's blank look said it all.

"No worries, I've got you."

Bob slapped the puck away, the black circle flying through the air to slam into the ice rink wall, a crack running up the side of it from the impact.

His teammates stared in shock as Rod approached Bob, putting a hand on the edge of the goal net as he leaned against it, meeting Bob's gaze straight on. "A lot less force please if you can manage it. I don't want you accidentally hurting my boys."

There was the barest of nods on Bob's part, the next time he deflected the puck a much less volatile affair. He clearly had a lot to learn but was willing to do his part.

That was all Rod asked of him.

* * *

**Two days later…**

"It was a total shut-out," Simon Miller said in shock, his teammates walking alongside him down the corridor. "We…actually won a game."

Their standing in the league was usually on the low end, winning only once in a blue moon. Not because they didn't try hard, but because everyone else seemed a little better at everything than they were.

Their victory today was all down to the natural talent of their new goalkeeper. He never let anything get past him, instantly shutting down any attempt of the rival team scoring.

Bob stomped past them all in the locker room and sat down in the far corner, silent as the grave, his hockey stick still tight in his grip as he watched his fellow teammates begin to strip off their gear and equipment.

It was just a touch unsettling.

Five minutes later, Coach trooped through the room, eventually coming to stand in front of Bob who was easily twice his size. "Game's over, son. Commendable job. Now hand over the stick."

For a long moment, Bob looked like he was going to use it in a very unsportsmanlike way, then he gave him the hockey stick over, reluctance clear in his body language.

"Good boy. Now strip and go hit the showers." Bob did so, then lurched to his feet, shortly disappearing into the shower room situated behind the main row of lockers.

The room exploded into conversation, the majority of the players unable to believe how brave their coach was.

"That was amazing, Coach. How'd you do it?"

Coach thumbed his nose in nonchalance like talking down Bob had been no big deal. "It's all about the attitude, boys. Now stop the reach-around nonsense and go back to what you were doing. We've got a long drive ahead of us tonight."

"Yes, Coach."

* * *

"Have you seen the Trolls' record? It's terrible. Guys can't usually see the net, much less make an actual goal," one of the men sitting at the bar said, their voice slightly slurred.

The team in question had gone to the local dive bar to relax the evening before their next game, a decision most of them regretted now.

The man's companion scoffed. "It's their coach Rod Smith. Thinks he's hot stuff when his own career was shit back then."

"Coach?" Simon questioned, pitching his voice low, keeping an eye on Rod as he sat soundlessly at the head of the table, one hand clutched tightly around a beer bottle.

Rod shook his head. If he couldn't take criticism this late in his career, sports was no place for him. "Ignore them, boys. You've all been doing great."

The only member of the team not drinking was Bob, merely taking in his surroundings in silence. Whether he was actually present mentally was a matter of debate.

It was only when Peter and Adam Gray remained the sole team members at the bar, Coach Smith and the rest returning to the nearby motel down the street, that Bob sprang into action.

He followed the drunks that had given the team a thorough ribbing out the door, both men exchanging a look of concern.

In mute agreement, they trod on Bob's heel in time to see him crush one of the drunk's skulls between his hands. The other man tried to run but tripped, giving Bob ample time to simply walk over and stomp on his neck, which snapped instantly.

The dead bodies crumpled around Bob's feet, twin puddles of blood spreading across the asphalt.

Peter couldn't help asking stupidly, "Bob, what did you do?" Having been a witness to the event, he knew exactly what had just occurred.

"You didn't like hearing us bad-mouthed, did you?" Adam asked, staring at Bob who might have shrugged minutely at the question.

His shoulders lowering in defeat, Bob started to walk away, heading for the bit of forestry across the way.

"Wait, where are you going?"

"Yeah, stop. You're our teammate, aren't you?" Peter said, aghast at having inadvertently insulted Bob for trying to protect the team.

Adam nodded in full agreement. "Teammates cover for each other. It's what we do."

Working together, the pair managed to get the dead bodies into the bar's dumpster without anyone seeing. The cops would probably still find them eventually, but at least they would be in the next state by then.

Their task completed, Peter and Adam froze in surprise when Bob approached them from behind, reaching out and pressing them all together in a tight hug.

Bob was immensely strong and it was a relief when he let them go, both Peter and Adam sure they'd have multiple bruises from the encounter.

"Uh, no problem, dude."

"Yeah, you're welcome."

* * *

"Are we sure?" Peter asked over dinner a few months later.

"About what?"

Gesturing to the man sitting in the corner of a booth, his dark gaze ever roving over the bar and grill inhabitants, Peter leaned towards Adam. "That our goalie is really…you know, _him_."

"Jason?" The name was whispered as low as he could manage yet still be audible for Peter. Their coach had warned each member uttering the name could have dire consequences.

They'd learned a lot about their newest teammate in the last few months. He was tireless, insanely strong, and willing to help out his fellow comrades whenever they asked. Still, it didn't amount to much when it came to Bob's past.

"Yeah," Peter confirmed. "That guy."

Adam's brow furrowed in thought. "He never takes off his mask, even in the shower."

"Well, yeah, but all the scars on him…Bob's clearly been to hell and back. Maybe his face is the worse part. Would you want people gawking at it?"

"Not really."

His teammate Adam made a hmm sound. "We've never seen him eat or drink either."

"And he doesn't exactly smell great," Peter replied, picking at his French fries, his chicken sandwich already demolished.

Adam's drink splashed in the beer mug as he dipped it towards Peter. "Hey, neither do us most of the time."

"He _does _kill people, which is the biggest clue."

"Yeah, but doesn't everybody have those thoughts sometimes? Bob just acts on them. Inconvenient, but imagine how he'd act if he didn't have that outlet," Adam pointed out, the hamburger on his plate almost gone.

Peter shuddered, not wanting to go there even in his mind. "You think that's why Coach told us no drugs or sex when Bob's around?"

Adam pushed his empty plate to the edge of the table so the wait staff could see and collect it. "It does seem to upset him."

"Probably because he can't get any himself." Adam suddenly paled and Peter felt the hair on the back of his neck rise up in dread, the atmosphere oddly heavy. "He's behind me, isn't he?"

Adam silently nodded.

"Shit." Peter cleared his throat, leisurely turning in his chair until he had Bob in his sights. "Hey, buddy, how's your night been?"

Bob stood there, radiating indifference until he finally continued past the pair's table. Breathing a sigh of relief, Peter faced his friend again and slouched over the table, thanking his lucky stars Bob had been willing to let the insult go.

"That was way too close for comfort."

Adam met his gaze, some of the color returning to his face. "I think we should probably accept Bob as is and not try to understand why he's helping us out."

"Isn't it because he's having fun?" Peter replied, sipping at his drink.

"Who can tell?"

Peter raised his glass of beer in the air, Adam following his lead. "To the mysterious Bob." They clinked their glasses together, then drank deep of their respective beverages.

Their winning streak probably wouldn't hold forever, but while it lasted, they were going to enjoy it.

* * *

Somehow they'd made into the finals with only one game between them and the championship. Wanting to motivate his team further, Rod had some of the ice arena staff prepare a small celebration inside the Trolls' locker room when it was apparent they were going to win the semifinals game.

Elated by their victory, half of the players were three sheets to the wind in no time.

"Three cheers for Jason!" Gerald Clark suddenly shouted as he hefted his glass into the air, some of the liquor sloshing out of it. "Hip, hip, hoor…"

The room became chilly as everyone lapsed into a stunned silence. Loose lips sunk ships and the blunder after nearly a whole season of calling their teammate by another, more mundane name, in an effort to avoid bringing up his origin, was grim.

"You **stupid** son of a bitch," Rod muttered, putting a hand to his face.

Bob abruptly stood from his seat, almost vibrating with rage. He grabbed half of a pair of skates, holding the sharpened edge out as he approached Gerald.

With no thought involved, Rod put himself right into Bob's path.

"Listen, son. You aren't that man anymore. You can-"

Bob's free hand shot out and grasped Rod by the throat, his grip gradually tightening, deep bloody furrows appearing on the skin. He squeezed harder and the life drained from Rod's face in under a minute, his trachea crushed like plastic.

As Bob flung Rod aside, his teammates began fleeing from the locker room, self-preservation instincts kicking in. Hunting down 20+ people would have been a challenge for a mere mortal, but Bob wasn't like everyone else.

By the time Jason had finished his self-appointed task, there were corpses strewn all over the ice arena. Players, spectators, staff, etc. If there any reluctance on his part to leave the building, it didn't show.

He melded into the wooded area behind the parking lot, then began the long trek home to Crystal Lake. It had been too long and Mother was calling.


End file.
